Don't Believe Me

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When I was a kid and getting grief from my mother, I would mouth the word bitch. But only in my head. I would imagine my eyes rolling dramatically while I actually mumbled "Yes, Mom. I know, Mom. I'm sorry, Mom." My brothers and I would then gather in the rec room and discuss what I, or they, depending on who was in trouble, really wanted to say. We were masters of the imaginary argument. From a young age, I had a good grasp of the filter required to be regarded as a decent human being.

Like every good wife, after an argument with my husband has ended, I am on the phone with my friends discussing what I really wanted to say. We cackle at the zings that he will never feel and the oh so cruel burns that would shrivel his penis for weeks if he only knew what an absolute bitch I was. After the gabfest I feel rejuvinated and ready to apologize, knowing that I secretly have the upper hand. I think that's how most marriages work, at least the good ones.

I mostly love my secret identity: polite, easy going and cute. But underneath that chipper persona is a stark raving bitch ready to slap your teeth down your throat if provoked. She's mean and vicious. And tall. Very tall. And as imagined as my eleven year old self's insults to my mother. Sigh. Real life can get complicated. Fortunately, my super-bitch can unleash a hail of fuck down upon the internet. Rage problem, you say? Nah. But if it weren't for you tools, it could be.